Page 41 of Ambition (The Chaplain’s Legacy #6)

R obert watched Olivia’s retreating back.

Every instinct urged him to go after her, but he had Embleton to deal with, not to mention a very upset groom, sure that he was about to be turned off without a character for allowing Lady Euphemia to escape.

By the time he had reassured the groom, urged the rest of the guests back into the breakfast parlour and arranged for a fast horse for Embleton, Olivia was long gone.

He searched methodically room by room, but it took him some time to discover that she was not in the house at all. Her maid discovered that a bonnet and cloak had been taken, so Robert fetched his own greatcoat and began a systematic search of the grounds.

She was pacing up and down a small clearing in the shrubbery, quite hidden from the house, head down, holding the cloak tight around her, for the air was chilling. Her face, usually smiling and happy, was pale and drawn.

“Olivia? Are you quite well?”

She stopped, looked up at him, then commenced pacing again. “I am quite well.”

Her voice was flat, and his heart went out to her. His poor Olivia! If only he could take her in his arms, purely to comfort her, as he would a sister… perhaps not quite as a sister, but she so badly needed comfort and yet he dared not offer it.

“I am so sorry,” he said quietly, feeling utterly helpless. “You were getting on so well with him, too. I truly thought—” But he could not, would not put the thought into words.

She looked up at him then, a rueful little smile flickering across her face. “Oh yes! Last night… cribbage… and he talked about his house! That seemed so promising. But I shall never be a duchess now. So much for my foolish hopes.”

“Not foolish!” he said, although the words almost stuck in his throat.

The head dropped again as she paced, this way and that across the clearing, slowly and without purpose.

“You are very kind to say so, but I do not think Lord Embleton ever saw me in a romantic light. He has not a romantic nature, I suspect, so there was never the least possibility that he would fall in love with me.”

“How could he not?” Robert cried, before he could stop himself.

She looked up at him then, her lips parted in surprise.

And somehow, he could not say how, for he had not intended it, the words tumbled out of him in an unstoppable flood.

“Livvy, you must not despair, for you are the most lovable girl in the Kingdom, and even if Embleton does not see it, there are plenty who do. I do, for one. I can never make you a duchess, which is what you deserve to be, for no one could grace such a position more than you, but if you think you could put up with only being a countess, then marry me instead. You are so good for me, Livvy, for you always know what to do with the estate business, and you make me feel it is not so onerous… that perhaps one day I shall be able to manage it without becoming blue-devilled. I would love to play cribbage with you, whenever it pleases you, and I know you like Strathinver and you get on with Mama and my sisters, and heaven only knows, I never thought I would find anyone who would. Izzy never did and—”

“Izzy!” she hissed. “It is always about Izzy , not about me, because how could I ever compare with the Incomparable? So beautiful, so witty, so clever, so everything, while I am nothing but a shadow of her!”

“No,” he said faintly. “No, that is not how it is at all. It is you I love, Livvy, far more than I ever loved Izzy…”

He stopped, realising his mistake at once, for her face darkened with rage. “Izzy, Izzy, Izzy! You are obsessed with her.”

His own anger was rising, for he was offering her his heart, his name, the very soul of his being, and she just tossed it all aside as if it were nothing.

“I think it is you who are obsessed, Livvy. Why do you compare yourself with her? Why think of yourself as a mere shadow of your sister? You are yourself, and it is you I love, not Izzy. You are better than her in a thousand ways.”

“Now I know you are lying to me!” she cried, tears falling although she appeared not to notice.

“I am not… will never be better than her, because she is the Incomparable and I am just a ghost, remember? A ghost who looks like her but falls short in every way. Oh, leave me alone, Osborn! I do not want your platitudes. Go away!”

The small corner of his mind that was still rational reminded him that she was a guest at Strathinver, so there would be other opportunities when she was less overwrought to press his suit.

He would prepare better for the next time, and choose his words more carefully.

What a fool he was to allow himself to be swept away by his own emotions!

After controlling himself while she put herself in Embleton’s way, he should at least have given her time to recover from her disagreement with him.

And now he had made her cry! She had turned her back on him, her shoulders heaving as she sobbed.

Never had he wanted to hold her more! He raised his arms to reach for her without any conscious thought.

But he must not. That was one thing he could do for her, to obey her last words to him and leave her to her grief.

Quietly he crept away, but inside his heart ached with a pain so physical he wondered how on earth he was to get through the rest of the day.

Could he appear as his usual insouciant self? He must, for Olivia’s sake.

Hardly aware of his whereabouts, he was shocked to be hailed by a male voice. Surely it could not be—? But it was indeed Embleton.

“Kiltarlity! W-w-where is she? L-Lady Olivia?”

“I thought you had gone to Lochmaben,” Robert said, realising as he spoke how stupid that sounded.

“Later. Must ap-p-pologise.”

“Oh.” An apology! Then Olivia’s hopes had not foundered irretrievably.

Robert’s spirits, already low, sank even further.

But perhaps he could put Embleton off? Say he had not seen Olivia…

but no. She deserved her chance of happiness, however bitter that might be for him.

“She… she is down that path. Or she was. That is where I saw her.”

Eagerly, Embleton raced off, and Robert was left to wonder whether it was too early in the day for brandy. A lot of brandy.

***

O livia paced and wept, and wept and paced, back and forth across the small clearing, her feet crunching on the fallen leaves strewn everywhere.

Why did Robert Osborn torment her so? Why did he pretend to love her, when Izzy was still uppermost in his thoughts?

He had loved her passionately five years ago, and he still loved her now — loved her so well that he would take even Olivia, the pale imitation, to have some trace of Izzy in his life.

Maddening man! And yet, so kind, so charming, so amusing.

He never failed to lift her spirits, whereas Lord Embleton— But no, that was not a thought she wanted to pursue.

The marquess was a serious man, not a fribble like Robert.

And the stutter, too, was a hindrance to the lighthearted banter of which Robert was such a master.

It was wrong of her to compare them, for the quiet marquess could not fail to be the loser.

And now there was no point in thinking about either of them, for she had quarrelled with Robert and Lord Embleton had shouted at her again.

This time it truly was not her fault… was it?

She could not be blamed if Effie had taken her casual words and used them to run away. But he was angry with her all the same.

It was all so difficult, and there was no one to talk to about it.

Papa was still sunk in gloom about his own romantic affairs, and there was no one else.

No Mama, in particular — how she longed for Mama to hold her tight and tell her briskly that everything would come right in the end, and not to worry about it.

It would even be good to unburden herself to Aunt Jane or Aunt Alice, for although they never quite made her feel better in the way that Mama would, at least they would not shout at her and tell her she was a meddlesome creature.

Oh, if only Robert had not tried to propose to her!

If only he had simply held her, as he had that day in the secret room, when she had wept all over him and he had hugged her until she felt better and then fed her wine and cakes.

Robert always made her feel better, she thought wistfully.

Even in this year of all horrible years, with Granny so ill and that terrible business with Uncle Arthur — murdered in his bed with an axe!

Such an unspeakable thing to happen! Then the whole business with being illegitimate, too.

And the poor lady who disappeared, Mrs Edgerton’s friend, had been murdered and then Bertram had been shot!

Such a dreadful succession of events that would have rendered her quite prostrate with horror, except that Robert had managed to lift her spirits.

And now she had fallen out with him, and she was not sure that the breach could ever be mended.

That thought filled her with longing for the happier times when he had simply flirted with her and—

A sound. Footsteps nearby, scuffing through the leaves.

Before Olivia had time to prepare herself for an intrusion, the Marquess of Embleton burst into the clearing. His face lightened when he saw her, then immediately darkened again.

“No, no, no!” he murmured, closing the distance between them in a few steps. “No t-tears! M-My fault. So s-s-sorry!”

Quite unable to speak, Olivia waved a hand about, trying to convey… she hardly knew what. Her mind was too overwhelmed to formulate a coherent response.

“M-must not cry!” he said, sounding rather frantic. “No tears. Never meant… please… marry me.”

And then, somewhat clumsily, he put his arms around her and patted her back, but that just made her cry even more.